OUT     OF    MIST 


OUT    OF    MIST 

By 

Florence  Kilpatrick  Mixter 


BONI     AND     LIVERIGHT 

PUBLISHERS  NEW      YORK 


COPYRIGHTED,  1921,  3Y 
BONI   &   LIVERIGHT,    INC. 

All  rights  reserved 


PBIWTED   IN   THE  UHTTKP   STATES   OF   AMEBICA 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

OUT   OF  MIST!     A  Sonnet  Sequence 

40 
TRANSFIGURATION 

ST.  PATRICK'S  CATHEDRAL 

THE    SUMMONS 

DECEMBER   AUGURY 

INVOCATION  ^° 

THE    DEAD  °® 

TO    EDWARD    LIVINGSTON  TRUDEAU                                                                 53 

SANCTUARY  °* 

RITUAL  55 

THE    DEATH    OF   AN    ARTIST  56 

PROLOGUE  57 

WINTER   LANDSCAPE  53 

THE    WILD    CAT  59 

THE    BRIDGE 

CHINESE    EPITAPH 

A    PRINT    BY    HOKUSAI  62 

THE    CANDLE 

ALL   SOULS'    EVE  64 

THE   MARRIAGE    OF   THE  SPRUCE                                                                        65 


PAGE 

ESTRANGED  66 

TO   A    YOUNG    GIRL  67 

THE    OLDER   WISDOM  68 

SEPTEMBER  69 

ELEGY  70 

IN   MEMORY    OF 71 

CRADLE    SONG  72 

TO   A    CHILD  73 

CHANGELING  74 

DRESSING    UP  75 

LULLABY  76 


[6] 


For  permission  to  reprint  a  number  of  these 
poems  thanks  are  due  to  the  Editors  of  Poetry, 
Contemporary  Verse,  The  Midland,  The  Poetry 
Journal,  The  Lyric,  The  Masses,  The  New  York 
Times,  and  The  Bookman. 


[7] 


OUT     OF    MIST 
A     SONNET     SEQUENCE 


PREMONITORY  winds  are  at  my  door 

And  restive  buds  tap  on  my  window-pane; 

Through  drifting  clouds  the  hazy  sunbeams  pour 

Their  grateful  presage  of  oncoming  rain. 

Within  my  room  the  April  air  is  still; 

No  tremor  stirs  the  roses  at  my  side. 

The  shadows  gather  gently  till  they  fill 

The  walls  about  me  with  a  dusk  world- wide. 

And  now  grows  faint  the  throbbing  pulse  of  Spring. 

Drenched  buds  sink  down  in  elemental  rest.  .  .  . 

Lo !  spectral,  through  the  stillness  dark,  you  fling 

The  rainbow  blossoms  of  the  troubled  west ! 

Each  flower  among  them  soon  must  fade  and  die, 

Were  they  not  all  dream- wrought — thrown  from  the  sky, 


Hi] 


II 


1  HESE  hours  are  legendary ;  they  shall  pass 
Like  shadows  of  the  April  afternoon 
That  weave  bright  arabesques  upon  the  grass 
To  fade  on  the  dark  dial  of  the  moon.  .  .  . 
Long  have  I  heard  with  mute,  incredible  wonder, 
Your  voice  above  Spring's  low  accompaniment. 
Now,  to  the  drum-beat  of  receding  thunder, 
You  come — as  though  with  your  heart's  turmoil  spent. 
Farewell  to  dreams !  bright  shadows  unreturning 
Across  the  lovely  dial  of  the  sun ! 
Over  the  day  of  their  far-vistaed  yearning 
The  twilight  falls  upon  the  play  begun !  .  .  . 
What  winds  of  Heaven  now  whisper  on  our  lips?  .  .  . 
Pale  in  the  sky  the  silent  bow-moon  dips. 


12] 


Ill 


VTHY  bid  me  say  what  you  must  know  so  well 
That  faltering  speech  of  mine  must  but  confuse? 
What  is  there  that  my  whispered  words  can  tell 
So  truly  as  my  every  futile  ruse? 
Did  not  the  smiling  mask  I  wore  so  long 
Prove  but  a  banner  of  the  war  within? 
Could  studied  silence  smother  all  the  song 
That  deafened  me  with  its  tumultuous  din? 
How  did  I  seek  to  screen  from  out  my  sight 
Those  blinding  rays  from  your  compelling  eyes! 
And  how  I  fought  to  quench  the  answering  light 
That  from  the  glad  fires  of  my  soul  would  rise ! 
Ah!  must  you  still  look  down  and  bid  me  speak? 
What  is  it  in  my  heart — or  yours — you  seek? 


[13] 


IV 


BEAUTY  be  praised  for  this  white  hour  when  I 

May  tell  my  love!     The  storm  has  left  no  cloud 

To  mar  the  glory  of  the  twilit  sky, 

And,  radiant  as  the  evening  star,  and  proud, 

I  take  your  hand  that  soon  shall  lead  me  out 

To  undiscovered  dawns!     The  road  that  lay 

Before  us  had  no  turning;  past  all  doubt 

I  follow  now  where  you  shall  lead  the  way. 

Ah,  let  the  long  years  bring  us  what  they  will 

Of  paling  stars  or  music  that  recedes! 

Faith  that  is  born  tonight  shall  ever  fill 

The  dusk — though  unknown  morrows  teach  new  creeds. 

For  we  have  been  as  children — gay  or  sad 

Together.     But,  together,  somehow  glad. 


114] 


WHAT  strange  sweet  gesture  of  remembering  earth 

Shall  make  this  twilight  spell  forever  ours 

When,  on  momentous  tides,  it  has  re-birth 

In  fragrant  miracle  of  wind-tossed  flowers? 

Perhaps  a  sudden  onslaught  of  bright  rain, 

Like  fury  of  the  unleashed  dreams  of  day, 

Will  beat  again  upon  the  window-pane, 

In  tune  with  flute  notes  calling  us  away. 

Then,  hearing  the  far-echoing  thunder's  roll — 

Across  whatever  gulf  of  joy  or  tears — 

We  shall  recall  such  treasure  as  the  soul 

May  look  upon  once  in  a  thousand  years; 

Seeing  the  garden  that,  enchanted,  slept 

Until  Love  came — dusk-shadowed  and  rain-swept. 


[15] 


VI 


WHEN  I  had  told  my  love,  you  slowly  said, 

"Go,  dear!  while  strength  is  yours  to  turn  away." 

And  yet  I  could  not  think  that  hope  was  dead 

That  had  not  lived  for  even  one  short  day. 

At  length  you  said,  "Go  now,  before  I  mar 

This  holy  hour  with  omens  that  your  heart 

Would  vainly  disavow — and  from  afar 

Remember  one  white  moment  here  apart." 

But,  unafraid, — almost  impatiently, 

I  heard  you  speak;  nor  even  tried  to  guess 

The  import  of  this  sudden  mystery 

That  had  no  place  amid  such  loveliness. 

And  when  at  last  you  turned  and  kissed  my  hair 

Your  sombre  words  melted  like  summer  air. 


[16] 


VII 


How  glad  I  was !     How  light  and  swift  my  wings 
That  soared  above  the  clouds,  above  the  blue; 
Above  the  memory  of  all  earthly  things 
I  seemed  at  last  alone  with  God  and  you. 
Did  you  fly  with  me?     I  shall  never  know 
What  mists  obscured  your  vision;  what  faint  cry 
Came  up  to  you  from  regions  far  below. 
Ah!  how  I  strove  to  make  you  see  the  sky 
That  trembled  limitless  before  my  sight — 
Horizonless,  unbounded,  then  at  last 
Melting  into  a  universe  of  light! 
Did  you  see  aught  of  it  before  it  passed?  .  .  . 
You  do  not  answer,  but,  across  your  eyes, 
Trail  the  dim  mists  of  a  lost  Paradise. 


[17] 


VIII 

THEN,  as  you  turned  and  spoke  a  strange  good-bye, 

I  seemed  to  hear  within  your  voice  a  note 

Of  last  decision,  piercing  the  bright  sky.  .  .  . 

Alone,  there  came  a  fear  that  clutched  my  throat 

Until  I  could  no  longer  see  the  light, 

But  needs  must  blindly  creep  back  to  your  side 

To  find  you  safe. — Safe!  and  with  eyes  alight 

Because  your  fantasies  could  so  misguide 

My  trust  that  I  should  think  the  words  you  said 

Were  true;  forgetting  all  in  that  belief 

Save  that  I  loved,  and  that  you  might  be  dead. 

And  you!     You  only  smiled  at  my  poor  grief !  .  .  . 

Ah,  was  it  triumph  of  the  actor's  role? 

Or  had  I  guessed  aright  your  desperate  soul? 


[18] 


IX 


How  shall  I  learn  to  live  with  this  strange  love 

That  has  no  place  among  the  things  I  know? 

For  it  is  like  a  dream  wherein  I  move 

Upon  a  sea  in  whose  strong  undertow 

I  must  succumb,  save  for  some  power  of  will 

To  battle  with  uncharted  streams  of  death. 

Ofttimes  I  struggle  to  recall  that  still 

And  brooding  day  when,  with  confiding  breath, 

I  reached  across  the  drifting  sands  to  you 

Whose  strength  was  rock.     But  ah !  how  suddenly 

That  whirling  cloud  from  out  the  unbroken  blue 

Swept  us,  unmindful,  to  the  open  sea, 

Where,  on  relentless  tides,  moon-piloted, 

We  drift  to  shores  of  the  forgotten  dead. 


119] 


X 


\VERE  we  so  prodigal  of  joy  that  Fate 
Grew  tired  of  counting  off  the  lovely  hours 
Whose  sunlit  vistas  reached  to  Heaven?     Too  late 
We  saw  the  storm  descending  on  our  flowers 
Long-gathered.     I  could  only  give  one  cry; 
And  then  my  soul  was  dumb  and  very  still.  .  .  . 
But  you,  relentless  of  what  now  might  die 
If  you  should  speak,  proclaimed  your  angry  will 
With  all  the  fierce  magnificence  of  youth. 
And  as  I  heard  and  tried  to  steel  my  heart 
We  suddenly  smiled !     Ah,  then  in  very  truth 
We  saw  a  thousand  sparkling  blossoms  start 
Where  one  had  been!     I  know  not  what  we  said 
But  only  how  the  sunlight  touched  your  head. 


[20] 


XI 


\VHAT  place  is  there  for  me  in  your  life's  dream? 
Is  there  a  moment  in  a  single  day 
When,  at  the  far  horizon's  rim,  I  seem 
A  flashing  sail  upon  the  ocean's  grey? 
Comes  there  a  time  when  dusk  is  hanging  near, 
With  all  the  sky  aflame  in  dying  light, 
That,  of  the  racing  cloud-shapes,  I  appear 
The  one  swift-changing  cloud  of  your  delight? 
And  sometimes,  when  the  dawn  is  shot  with  rose 
And  shimmering  veils  of  mist  obscure  the  sea, 
Perhaps  within  your  lonely  heart  there  grows 
A  moment's  all-engulfing  need  of  me?  .  .  . 
Strange!    Once  I  had  no  troubling  wish  to  know. 
But  was  that  not  a  hundred  years  ago? 


[21] 


XII 

ALL  through  the  night  I  lie  and  think  of  you 

Who  leave  me  dumb  with  inarticulate  pain 

Where  nightmare  shadows  pass  in  dim  review 

Down  the  dark  corridors  of  my  numb  brain. 

Now  I  grope  blindly  for  the  lover,  dead 

To  my  imagining;  in  wide-eyed  fear 

Travel  the  paths  that  once  unswerving  led 

To  him;  but  find  him  not;  nor  any  tear 

To  blur  the  slow  grey  dawn.     In  vain  I  toss 

From  image  upon  image  of  this  you 

I  do  not  know;  then  wonder  if  your  loss 

Of  me  could  ever  throb  the  whole  night  through? 

No!     Pitiless,  you  seem,  still  unaware 

Of  ghostly  shapes  that  rise  up  everywhere. 


XIII 

WHAT  words  of  sleeping  consciousness  beguile 

Our  hearts  wherein  was  once  no  need  for  speech? 

Better  to  part  with  one  remembering  smile 

Than  stare  with  empty  eyes;  while  spirits  reach, 

Like  mist-swept  mountain  peaks,  to  part  the  clouds 

That  hide  them  from  the  sky.  ...  I  would  forget 

The  meaningless  conflict;  rend  the  smothering  shrouds 

Of  pride;  kill  base  distrust  or  vain  regret 

Rather  than  stifle  thought  of  mine  or  yours; 

Tear  down  the  veils  of  mystery,  and  dare 

To  look  for  hate,  or  love  that  still  endures 

Beyond  the  tomb.  ...  Ah !     I  would  most  beware 

Of  cruel  artifice  that  now  denies 

The  love  we  knew  when  truth  spoke  from  our  eyes ! 


[23] 


XIV 

How  readily  the  dreaming  mind  forgives 

The  scar  that  glows  relentlessly  by  day 

And,  in  forge tfulness  of  pain,  re-lives 

The  undimmed  beauty  of  a  far-off  May. 

Thus  tenderly  you  came  to  me  last  night 

And  for  one  sleeping  heart-beat  held  me  near.  .  .  . 

One  heart-beat  whose  far  echo  of  delight 

It  seemed  must  ring  from  sphere  to  answering  sphere. 

Then  suddenly  I  woke  and  you  were  gone 

And  once  again  the  scar  burned  livid  red. 

How  profitless  my  dream  when  with  the  dawn 

I  waken  with  a  heart  uncomforted 

And,  searching,  know  not  if  I  grieve  for  hate 

Or  for  a  love  that  Hell  cannot  abate. 


[24] 


XV 


SILENCE  is  bitter;  yet  what  word  of  mine 

Would  reach  you  now?     What  miracle  could  break 

The  heavy  doors  that  bitterly  confine 

Your  spirit?     What  remembering  smile  could  wake 

The  beauty  that  is  dead?  .  .  .  All,  all  must  fail 

Only  to  bring  us  both  to  overthrow.  .  .  . 

No  need  to  tell  me  that  my  words  are  pale 

In  your  tense  sight,  and  that  my  touch  is  slow 

To  heal  your  heart  that  would  forever  kill 

The  form  it  fashioned !     Even  my  eyes  allow 

A  quick  defeat  before  your  blinding  will 

And  I  at  last  am  weaponless.     Ah,  now 

Be  swift  in  your  unkindness.  .  .  .  Strike  one  blow 

That  shall  release  me.  .  .  .  With  that  kindness,  go! 


[25 


XVI 

IN  the  pale  languor  of  some  sultry  noon, 

A.  brooding  aeon  since  we  said  good-bye, 

Would  you,  I  wonder,  on  this  day  of  June, 

Unseal  my  letter  with  an  ominous  sigh? 

Fearing  the  words  therein  might  break  the  spell 

Of  moments  we  should  never  again  know? 

Fearing  that  I  who  once  had  loved  so  well 

Might  speak  a  language  that  you  did  not  know? 

Or  rather,  from  these  casual  words  of  mine, 

So  unperturbed — save  where  the  thought  is  broken — 

Would  you  not  read  into  each  barren  line 

The  love  that,  once  at  dusk,  my  lips  had  spoken; 

And,  dreaming,  hold  that  memory  to  your  heart 

As  you  would  me — were  we  not  worlds  apart? 


XVII 

IF  you  sat  here  beside  me,  dear,  tonight 
We  should  not  talk  as  we  were  wont  to  do; 
Your  coming  would  put  every  thought  to  flight 
And  it  would  be  enough  to  smile  at  you! 
Ah!  we  should  watch  the  April  sun  go  down 
Beyond  the  long  stretch  of  the  river's  flow, 
And,  turning,  see  the  small  lights  of  the  town, 
A-kindle  with  our  dreams  of  long  ago. 
And  you  perhaps  would  reach  to  take  my  hand — 
For  it  is  long,  so  long,  since  we  have  met — 
And  each  has  been  in  a  grey,  wintry  land, 
And  for  one  shining  hour  we  should  forget!  ... 
Alone,  I  watch  the  mimic  lamps  burn  bright. 
For  you  are  not  beside  me,  dear,  tonight. 


[27] 


XVIII 

THINK  not  that  I  was  slow  to  understand. 
I  have  not  loved  you  merely  for  a  day.  .  .  . 
Your  moods  to  me  were  countless  grains  of  sand 
That  I  have  held  and  then  seen  slip  away. 
And  I  have  loved  you  for  so  much  that's  wise; 
For  laughter;  tenderness  like  summer  rain; 
For  slowly  wakened  passion  that  defies 
The  short-lived  beauty  of  its  cruel  reign. 
And  there  are  times  I  think  I  loved  you  best 
When  you  seemed  but  a  tired  child  of  mine 
Who  came  to  me  perplexed,  or  seeking  rest 
When  shadows  lengthened  at  the  sun's  decline. 
But  now  that  you  are  gone  my  eyes  behold 
Your  flaming  soul — before  unguessed,  untold. 


[281 


XIX 

TONIGHT  no  moon  shines  through  the  poplar  trees; 

The  stars  are  pale  before  the  coming  storm. 

And  like  a  flash  of  sleeping  memories 

Swift  lightning  floods  each  cloud's  awakening  form. 

The  dark  earth  crouches  underneath  my  feet, 

And  breath  of  clover  scents  the  parching  air; 

Tonight,  though  you  are  far,  our  spirits  meet 

Across  a  chaos  reaching  everywhere.  .  .  . 

This  is  the  hour  when  prophecies  are  rife 

And  for  our  pain  the  ancient  gods  atone 

With  respite  of  one  winged  hour  of  life 

When  love,  defiant,  rushes  to  its  own. 

This  is  the  hour  when  lightning-riven  skies 

Sear  with  white  flame  the  cold  earth  that  denies. 


[29 


XX 


I  DREAMED  that,  loving  you  again,  I  died, 

And  now  my  heart,  once  desolate  and  cold 

As  moonlit  snow,  in  sudden  wonder  cried 

"This  is  the  land  of  our  desire!     Behold 

The  desert  is  aglow  with  jewelled  light 

And  I  see  Beauty's  face  mirrored  afar 

Upon  the  drifting  sands!"  .  .  .  But  darkest  night 

Was  round  about  you  and  from  your  dim  star 

You  answered  "No!  for  now  your  love  is  done 

And  this  is  but  mirage  whose  pale  shapes  drift 

Across  an  empty  sky."  .  .  .  But  as  a  nun 

Perceives  her  God  I  had  seen  Beauty  lift 

Her  lowered  eyes  that,  from  eternal  May, 

Assigned  to  us  one  last  and  lovely  day. 


[30] 


XXI 

WHY  should  I  wonder  that  my  song  grows  dull 

And  meaningless  when  to  the  minor  key 

Of  my  dead  dreams  I  sing?     Now  in  the  lull 

That  ushers  in  this  long  feared  day  I  see 

No  light  to  guide  me,  and  I  stand  alone 

With  only  silence,  silence  at  my  side. 

Where  late  was  such  a  sun  as  never  shone 

Dread  darkness  and  the  swift  in-coming  tide 

Have  found  me  on  the  quicksands,  where  I  seem 

To  slip  from  you  at  every  step.     So  long 

Have  I  been  calling  you,  at  last,  I  dream 

That  you  are  come.  .  .  .  But  it  is  my  own  song 

I  hear — and  now  I  know  its  joyful  cry 

Is  but  the  echo  from  a  phantom  sky. 


[31 


XXII 

THIS  is  more  beauty  than  the  soul  can  bear, 
And  I  am  faint  with  so  much  loveliness. 
Not  Eden  itself  would  seem  one  half  so  fair 
Were  not  my  heart  a  thirsting  wilderness. 
Through  terraced  lights  that  hide  among  the  trees 
I  wander  to  the  moonlit  lake  below, 
And,  dazed  and  wondering,  my  spirit  flees 
Before  a  gladness  I  shall  never  know.  .  .  . 
Dim,  rippling  laughter  from  a  still  canoe; 
Soft  strains  of  music  from  the  halls  above; 
Gay  lights  upon  the  mirrored  lake — and  you — 
All  mingled  in  a  phantasy  of  love.  .  .  . 
Hush!     Can  it  be  your  flute-call  that  I  hear? 
Now  far  away  .  .  .  Now  ever  drawing  near  .  .  . 


32] 


XXIII 

AH,  once-beloved,  is  it  you  who  come? 

And  is  it  I  who  give  a  pallid  hand? 

Beneath  your  silent  gaze  my  eyes  are  dumb.  .  .  . 

We  are  two  strangers  in  an  alien  land ! 

And  who  more  courteous  than  we  who  dine 

And,  smiling,  mingle  with  the  other  guests?  .  .  . 

"Good-night,"  I  hear  you  say.     Your  hand  takes  mine 

That  in  your  tightening  clasp  all -yielding  rests. 

Now,  in  a  flash,  I  know  that  you  are  you, 

Though  still  a  shadow-shape  but  dimly  seen; 

Ghost  of  a  flaming  dream,  come  suddenly  true; 

Lover  of  old — and  yet  with  altered  mien.  .  .  . 

"Good -night,"  I  whisper — but  the  glad  stars  burn 

With  radiant  promise  of  your  swift  return! 


[33] 


XXIV 

AT  last  we  are  alone  and  all  is  still 

Save  for  the  crackle  of  the  great  birch  log 

Whose  silver  strength  is  spent  in  flame  to  fill 

Our  hearts  with  light  and  laughter.     The  white  fog 

That  hung  so  mournfully  now  slowly  lifts 

Above  the  western  hills;  dark  hills  where  gold 

Of  dying  sunset  filters  through  the  rifts, 

In  jewelled  shapes  my  dreaming  had  foretold.  .  .  . 

And  I,  who  ever  wondered  why  the  soul 

Knows  beauty  to  be  more  than  all  it  seems, 

Now  find  within  your  eyes  its  eager  goal 

And  know  your  arms  the  destiny  of  dreams.  .  ,  . 

And  if  life  hold  no  other  hour  than  this 

I  am  content — remembering  your  kiss. 


34 


XXV 

THERE  is  a  calm  that  broods  above  the  soul 

As  broods  grey  mist  above  an  unquiet  sea. 

It  is  the  calm  that  takes  its  ultimate  toll 

Out  of  the  heart's  last  bitter  agony. 

Thus,  high  above  the  treachery  of  tears, 

Above  the  night  of  all -enveloping  gloom, 

Above  the  desolation  of  long  years, 

I  heard  the  quiet  presage  of  your  doom. 

Then  to  my  listening  heart  there  suddenly  came 

The  far-off  echo  of  undying  hours; 

Down  vistas  of  despair  our  love's  white  flame 

Revealed  one  kingdom  that  was  wholly  ours.  .  .  , 

I  seemed  again  in  that  enchanted  land 

Where  we  had  dreamed  at  twilight,  hand  in  hand, 


[35] 


XXVI 

No  bitterness  shall  ever  drown  this  night 

Wherein  I  came  to  know  that  we  must  part. 

Beloved,  like  a  bird  in  soaring  flight, 

You  brought  me  all  the  passion  of  your  heart. 

Ah!  it  was  Heaven  just  to  feel  you  near, 

Like  holy  stillness  at  the  birth  of  dawn; 

And  it  was  your  own  soul  you  brought  me,  here 

Where  I  still  count  the  hours  since  you  are  gone. 

Again  I  feel  your  lips  upon  my  brow, 

And  hands  that  reach  to  clasp  about  your  head 

Fall  heavy  at  my  side;  more  heavy  now 

At  living  dawn  than  when  they  shall  lie  dead.  .  .  . 

But  I  who  found  you  in  that  last  good-bye 

Shall  hold  one  golden  image  till  I  die. 


36] 


XXVII 

IN  memory  I  sit  beside  your  bed 

And  see  again  the  smile  that  lit  your  face; 

Nor  do  the  slow  forgetful  years  erase 

A  syllable  of  those  last  words  we  said. 

For,  through  my  tears,  seeing  your  brightness  fled 

Because  of  them,  I  plead  with  Heaven  for  grace 

To  make  you  smile  once  more,  while  with  quick  pace 

I  heard  night  passing  that  would  leave  you  dead. 

Swiftly  I  took  your  hand  and  held  it  tight, 

Then  told  in  words  that  choked  me  ever  after 

Some  foolish  trifling  thing.    And  though  the  light 

That  came  with  your  brave  laugh  was  gone  thereafter, 

Yet,  as  a  rocket  fills  the  quiet  night 

With  falling  stars,  I  hear  again  your  laughter. 


[37] 


XXVIII 

WHERE  shall  I  find  you,  gone  across  the  mist 

Of  deep  oblivion?     Gestures  that  were  you 

Fade  from  my  sight,  yet  hauntingly  persist 

In  the  slow-falling  leaf.  .  .  .  The  voice  I  knew 

Is  silent  till  I  hear  its  overtones 

In  cadence  of  the  wind.  .  .  .  Though  Beauty  cries 

From  every  scarlet  hill  that  now  enthrones 

Your  spirit,  no  bewildering  disguise 

That  you  may  wear  shall  lure  me  from  the  thrill 

Of  your  swift  smile.  .  .  .  Nor  shall  I  ever  tire 

Of  seeking  you — who  once  were  and  are  still — 

The  appalling  vision  of  my  soul's  desire. 

For,  out  of  mist,  I  shall  at  last  discover 

The  unchanging  you — dear  strange  immortal  lover! 


[38] 


XXIX 

HERE  in  the  sanctuary  of  my  dreams, 

How  many  a  bud  shall  flower  when  I  am  dead! 

Ah,  my  beloved,  even  now  it  seems 

As  if  they  bent  and  swayed  above  my  head. 

What  though  the  sceptics  proved  that  death  were  real 

And  you  were  gone  from  me  a  million  years 

Yet  would  some  restless  daffodil  reveal 

The  image  God  re-captured  from  my  tears. 

And  you,  with  silent  lips  forever  cold, 

Might  vainly  seek  my  hand  across  the  dark 

But  some  old  dream  would  flash;  that  day  would  hold 

At  dusk  the  promise  of  the  rainbow's  arc.  .  .  . 

There  is  not  any  grave  where  love  may  rest 

Until  illusion  crumbles  in  earth's  breast. 


THE  END 


TRANSFIGURATION 

SILENCE  is  everywhere;   the  night  is  long 
With  uncomplaining,  and  the  far-off  wrong 
Of  earth's  unkindness  is  forgotten  now. 
Like  glacier-carven  rock  the  untroubled  brow 
Looms  eloquent  of  secret  strength  that  folds 
The  temple  of  the  mind — a  shrine  that  holds 
Some  hidden  meaning,  come  at  last  to  birth 
Through  tortuous  pathways  of  relentless  earth. 
Now,  though  the  soul  has  fled,  yet  in  its  flight 
It  has  illumined  in  the  caverned  night 
An  image;   burned  the  imprint  of  its  wings 
Into  the  clay,  whence  suddenly  there  springs 
New  form.  ...  A  form  that  neither  life  nor  death 
Can  wholly  claim;  but,  for  one  haunting  breath, 
Reflecting  beauty,  mute  and  lightning-shod, 
Poised  hesitant  between  the  dust  and  God. 


[40] 


ST.   PATRICK'S   CATHEDRAL 

INTO  the  stillness  of  that  vast  retreat 
I  turn  from  off  the  hot  and  noisy  street, 
To  rest  a  little  from  the  deafening  din, 
To  drink  in  beauty — not  repent  of  sin. 
Upon  a  shrunken  crone  who  scrubs  the  floor 
Rose-filtered  sunbeams  from  a  window  pour 
Transcendent  splendor  that  might  emanate 
From  the  high  Gothic  arch  of  Heaven's  gate. 
Save  for  a  kneeling  silent  form  or  two 
I  am  alone  with  what  is  false  or  true; 
Transfixed,  I  gaze  upon  the  altar's  gold 
And  wait  for  miracles  it  may  unfold.  .  .  . 
The  transept  door  swings  wide  and  shows  the  sun 
Upon  the  steps.     There  children  laugh  and  run, 
While  two  slip  through  the  portals  with  glad  rush, 
Not  sobered,  only  awed  by  that  deep  hush 
Brooding  within  high  dome  and  pillared  walls 
Like  captive  echoes  of  the  light  foot-falls. 


41 


Swiftly  they  pass  through  long  and  vaulted  aisle 
With  eager  eyes  and  faintly  lingering  smile, 
To  kneel  before  the  candle-lighted  shrine 
Where  Mother  Mary  lifts  her  face  divine.  .  .  . 
Then,  gaily,  they  go  forth  into  the  sun. 
Lo!     Mary  smiles  because  they  dance  and  run 


|42 


THE  SUMMONS 

SHE  met  him  in  the  little  college  town 
Where  he  had  gone  to  take  a  one  year's  course 
In  scientific  farming.     He  was  tall, 
Broad-shouldered,  and  of  sturdier,  plainer  stock 
Than  other  men  she  knew;  yet  sensitive 
Withal  to  her  own  fineness  as  perhaps 
No  other  man  had  ever  been.     His  eyes, 
Direct  and  kind,  had  from  the  very  first 
Expressed  his  need  of  her;  but  when  the  year 
Was  over,  he  returned  to  his  old  home 
Without  a  word  of  love,  and  she  went  west 
To  take  up  nursing. 

Almost  with  relief 

She  found  herself  now  free  from  what  had  been 
A  kind  of  bondage,  and  she  wondered  why 
This  silent  man,  with  his  great  dog-like  eyes, 
Had  so  compelled  her  soul.     Yet  as  the  months 


[43] 


Grew  into  years,  with  only  now  and  then 

A  note  or  Christmas  card  from  him,  she  came 

To  miss  him  indefinably,  and  once, 

When  Christmas  passed  without  a  line,  she  wept. 

Then,  taking  up  his  photograph,  she  tried 

To  look  more  deeply  in  his  eyes  than  she 

Had  ever  looked  before;   but  no  response 

To  her  new  mood  was  there,  and  when  at  last 

His  letter  came,  her  heart  was  cold  again. 


Three  years  had  passed  since  they  had  met,  and  he 

Had  lived  meanwhile  upon  his  father's  farm 

In  south  Vermont.     She  often  pictured  it; 

A  lonely  spot,  made  lonelier  still  by  fact 

That  he  was  close  related  to  one  man 

Of  every  five  in  this  wide  valley,  yet 

Was  alien  to  them  all.     His  father's  wish — 

That  this,  his  eldest  son,  should  follow  him — 


1441 


Was  law  to  such  a  nature  as  his  own 

And  so  he  blindly  toiled  upon  the  farm 

Where  generations  of  his  forebears  slept. 

His  letter  in  her  hand,  she  pictured  now 

The  long,  low  farm-house,  white  against  the  green 

Of  undulating  fields,  whose  shadowy  gloom 

First  drew,  and  then  repelled  her  joyous  soul, 

Just  as  his  lonely  strength  had  drawn,  and  then 

Almost  repelled  her.     Now  at  last  she  read 

What  he  had  written;  read  it  stupidly 

As  if  deferring  comprehension  while 

Again  she  looked  upon  the  summer  noon-day 

Of  far-off  fields — now  wholly  beautiful— 

Where  he,  supreme  in  glory  of  his  youth, 

Awaited  her.  .  .  .  Too  soon  the  vision  passed 

And  slowly,  word  by  word,  some  meaning  came 

From  those  few  lines  of  his.  .  .  He  told  it  with 

His  stern  simplicity — how  he  had  bought 

A  thresher,  hired  it  out,  and  then  one  day, 


145) 


While  trying  to  adjust  a  nut,  the  knife 
Had  caught  his  arm.  .  .  . 

She  went  to  him  at  once, 
Aware  that  no  slight  word  of  love  had  come 
From  him,  but  still  with  certainty  such  as 
The  gods  might  envy  who,  with  laggard  feet, 
Shall  bring  vain  gifts  to  intercept  her  pain. 


146] 


DECEMBER  AUGURY 

STRANGELY  enough,  our  conversation  turned 
Most  unexpectedly  to  death,  and  we 
Who  but  a  moment  since  had  laughed  together 
Suddenly  were  still.     Somehow  that  night 
The  thought  of  death — which  often,  like  a  wedge 
Between  two  minds,  cuts  off  communication — 
Brought  us  but  closer.  .  .  .  Closer  than  the  hour 
And  some  vague  arrogance  in  each  of  us 
Had  prophesied.     We  had  not  looked  for  this 
But  thought  our  loneliness  secure.     And  now, 
Too  proud  to  show  our  souls,  so  lately  clothed, 
Bereft  of  their  poor  rags,  we  talked  of  death 
As  if  it  were  a  month's  vacation.  "Grief," 
You  said,  "a  lasting  grief,  is  quite  beyond 
Imagination.     We  experience  shock 
And  feel  within  ourselves  a  deep  revolt 
Against  some  monstrous  force — but  actual  loss 


[47] 


We  scarcely  know.     There  is  a  subtle  beauty 

Deep  in  the  very  awfulness  of  death 

That  carries  with  it  its  own  anodyne." 

I  half  agreed  with  you.     At  least  my  words 

Made  but  a  faint  protest;  but  far,  far  back 

Within  my  brain  I  knew  we  lied!     And  yet 

There,  underneath  the  lamplight,  the  warm  glow 

Of  living  joy  upon  us,  spoken  words 

Seemed  to  half  lose  their  authenticity 

And  it  was  what  we  felt,  not  what  we  said, 

That  counted  most. 

Then,  through  the  open  door, 
The  sound  of  music  came  with  muted  voice 
Of  faint  denial,  and  as  if  our  two 
Unbending  souls  were  suddenly  aware 
That  death  had  come  to  one  of  us,  we  saw 
Just  how  the  room  would  look  with  everything 
The  same,  except  that  one  would  not  be  there. 
But  still  we  smiled  and  boasted  of  the  way 


48] 


We  should  forget;  till  all  at  once  a  gleam 

Of  sharp  uncertainty  and  stabbing  doubt 

Flashed  from  your  eyes  to  mine.     And  as  we  looked 

And  felt  each  other  near,  I  tried  to  cry 

"Impossible!"     But  no  words  came.     The  music 

Ceased  abruptly,  and  I  do  not  know 

What  you  were  just  about  to  say.     Our  eyes 

Unsaid  all  that  had  gone  before,  impelled 

By  might  of  silence  that  shall  some  day  speak, 

Interpreting  the  emptiness  of  words 

To  one  of  us  alone  under  the  lamplight. 


[49] 


INVOCATION 

TONIGHT  in  sleep  there  came  to  me 
A  dream  where  Christ  walked  on  the  sea 
And,  shipwrecked,  I  called  out,  to  hear 
His  quiet  answer  "I  am  near." 
But  when  the  waves  had  risen  high 
I  doubted — till  I  heard  him  cry 
"Come  take  my  hand,  beloved  one, 
The  long  and  lonely  night  is  done. 
Fear  not!  and  you  shall  walk  with  me, 
As  Peter  walked,  upon  the  sea." 

***** 

Who  was  it  cafled?     The  night  is  slow 
To  answer,  but,  awake,  I  know 
The  clutching  terror  of  the  heart 
That  feels  the  weed-choked  waters  part 
And,  drowning,  rears  a  Christ  who  stands 
With  dim-remembered  outstretched  hands.  . 


[50] 


Who  knows  if  Peter's  Christ  is  mine? 
Like  Peter,  now,  I  ask  a  sign.  .  .  . 
If  Christ  still  walks  upon  the  sea — 

*  *  *  * 

How  calm  is  dawn  on  Galilee! 


THE  DEAD 

How  quietly  they  sleep; 

How  tired  they  must  have  been 

Who  even  now,  in  this  wild  storm, 

Do  not  awaken. 

What  are  they  dreaming  of 

Who  lie  so  still  beneath  the  waving  ivy? 

Do  they  in  their  dreams,  I  wonder, 

Hear  the  thunder's  crash, 

Or  see  the  willows  bend  above  their  heads, 

Or  feel  the  passionate  warm  rain, 

Like  pent-up  tears, 

Upon  their  hearts?  .  .  . 

***** 

And  you,  dear  timid  one, 

Who  once  so  feared  the  lightning's  flash — 

Just  now  I  hurried  to  pull  down  the  shade 

To  shield  your  startled  eyes, 

And  suddenly  remembered 

You  were  sleeping  there 

Among  the  dead. 

(521 


TO  EDWARD  LIVINGSTON  TRUDEAU 

YOUR  spirit  passes,  but  a  star  is  born 
To  burn  steadfastly  in  the  silent  night 
Where  single  purpose  kindled  into  light 
Your  highest  hopes,  and  living  deeds  adorn 
Your  memory.     What  though  our  hearts  are  torn 
With  loss?     You  welcomed  death  with  eyes  alight 
Who  long  had  fought  with  all  a  soldier's  might, 
And  it  were  braver  if  we  did  not  mourn. 
Now  sleep  is  yours,  beneath  the  balsam  hills 
In  whose  strong  healing  breath,  in  whose  repose, 
We  who  have  loved  you  feel  the  health  that  fills 
Your  soul.  .  .  Great-hearted  hills  from  which  arose 
Your  dream,  and  whence  your  deathless  spirit  wills 
That  dream  to  rise  eternal  from  the  snows. 


[53] 


SANCTUARY 

How  is  it  faith  outstrips  the  doubting  word, 
Leaving  the  skeptic  brain  in  overthrow, 
And,  swift  as  arrow  from  the  archer's  bow, 
Rises  undimmed  above  the  flight  of  bird? 
Today  the  heavy  mists  of  doubt  are  stirred 
By  distant  currents — winds  that  softly  blow 
As  if  a  promise  given  long  ago 
Were  faintly  whispered  and  as  faintly  heard. 
I  sometimes  think  that  high  above  Earth's  dome 
Our  hopes  from  turret  to  dream-turret  soar 
And,  like  gray  pigeons,  build  their  nests  and  mate. 
There  Beauty  harbors  them  when  they  turn  home 
From  their  wide  circling,  and  forevermore 
Their  sanctuary  is  inviolate. 


[54] 


RITUAL 

KNEELING,  I  worship  at  that  holy  shrine 
Where  Love  returns  when  the  Beloved  is  gone, 
Where  night,  the  sea,  and  one  dark  Gothic  pine 
Breathe  their  old  covenants  of  golden  dawn.  .  . 
Again  I  hear  the  reverberant,  plaintive  tides 
Chanting  their  litanies  upon  the  dune, 
And  dream  I  await  you  where  the  sea  divides, 
Cleft  by  the  silver  pathway  of  the  moon.  .  .  . 
Though,  when  the  eastern  rim  of  heaven  pales, 
I  shall  arise  alone,  uncomforted, 
Now,  like  a  jewelled  censer,  night  exhales 
The  incense  of  a  dream  forever  dead, 
And  your  rapt  spirit,  like  an  organ,  pours 
Its  glad  Hosannas  on  long-echoing  shores. 


55 


THE  DEATH  OF  AN  ARTIST 

I  TIRE  of  looking  at  the  sea, "  he  said. 
"The  composition's  bad;  it  needs  a  tree 
Within  the  line  of  vision  where  the  red 
Of  sunset  pales  before  immensity. 
There's  too  much  water  and  there's  too  much  sky 
Without  a  frame  to  hold  them  in  their  place, 
And  not  enough  of  shore  to  rest  the  eye 
Or  any  little  thing  to  shatter  space. 
If  I  were  painting  it " — He  suddenly  smiled— 
"You'd  come  upon  it  almost  unaware. 
Down  avenues  of  green  your  soul,  beguiled, 
Would  yield  the  sea  a  glance  and  find  it  fair. 
How  swiftly  then  the  spirit  would  go  free!  .  .  . 
I  tire,"  he  said,  "of  looking  at  the  sea." 


PROLOGUE 

PAINT  the  sky  midnight  black!     Hang  the  moon 
In  the  highest  tree! 
Scatter  the  flowers  of  June 
Irrecoverably ! 

Drop  three  stars  in  a  fathomless  pool! 
Let  a  white  cloud  pass, 
Soft  as  a  breeze  and  cool, 
Over  the  grass! 

Leave  open  the  rose-trellised  gate 

For  mad  Harlequin ! 

Hush!    Draw  the  swift  curtain  of  Fate — 

Let  the  play  begin! 


[57] 


WINTER  LANDSCAPE 

THE  winter  wind  is  whining 
Across  the  furrowed  snow; 
A  slender  light  is  shining 
Out  from  a  silver  bow. 

Frozen  beneath  the  moonlight, 
The  long  road  suddenly  bends.  .  . 
I'll  follow  it  some  June  night 
And  tell  you  where  it  ends! 


158] 


THE  WILD-CAT 

IT  was  midnight  on  the  mountain  side 
When  the  wild-cat  crossed  the  trail; 
And  I  heard  his  padded  foot-falls 
And  I  saw  his  lashing  tail. 

Ajid  the  red  light  gleaming  from  his  eyes 
Shadowed  an  unseen  prey.  .  .  . 
But  the  cold  moon  covered  the  silence 
Where  a  swift  cry  died  away. 


[59] 


THE  BRIDGE 

How  beautiful  the  bridge  tonight 
Across  the  wild  ravine! 
How  fierce  the  lions,  tense,  alight 
Beneath  their  marble  sheen! 

How  golden  under  the  lighted  bridge 
The  rising  torrent  gleams! 
How  dark  the  purple  iris  ridge 
Cooled  by  the  freshet  streams! 

How  like  a  wraith  the  cloud  that  flies! 
How  cold  the  moon  that  wanes! 
Ah !  when  will  the  four  lions  rise 
And  toss  their  chiselled  manes? 


60] 


CHINESE  EPITAPH 

SHE  was  a  Manchu  lady.  .  .  . 

Near  the  tomb  where  she  lies 

Broods  an  ancient  Buddha,  with  robes  of  jade  and  of  coral 

And  curious  lapis-blue  eyes. 

She  was  a  wistful  lady.  .  .  . 

When  the  west  wind  sighs 

Inscrutable  even  as  the  terrible  calm  of  Buddha 

Her  impassive  disguise. 

She  was  a  Manchu  lady.  .  .  . 

Azure  the  skies 

And  golden  the  tracery  sealing  the  proud  lips  of  Buddha 

As  the  west  wind  dies. 


[61] 


A  PRINT  BY  HOKUSAI 

OF  what  avail 

The  tiny  winds  that  call 

To  the  indifferent  sea?     To  ships  a-sail 

The  twilight's  silver  pall 

Whispers  of  night 

Without  one  ripple  stirred. 

But  on  the  shoals  three  fishermen  in  white 

Are  watching;  they  have  heard.  .  .  . 

How  still  the  ships! 

So  soon  to  feel  the  breath 

Of  winds  that  rush  to  meet  the  sea's  cold  lips 

And  fill  the  night  with  death! 


62] 


THE  CANDLE 

THE  coverlet  lies  like  a  shroud, 
All  smooth  and  without  fold, 

Oblivious  of  what  it  drapes — 
A  spirit  numb  with  cold. 

The  arms  are  tense  as  if  some  weight, 
Long  held  from  off  the  heart, 

Had  slowly  crushed  the  knotted  hands 
And  forced  their  strength  apart. 

Disturb  him  not,  who  come  to  knock 

With  pity  or  dismay, 
Nor  ask  who  lit  the  candle 

And  softly  stole  away. 


[63] 


ALL  SOULS'  EVE 

HARK!  do  you  hear  the  choral  dead  ? 
Forgotten  now  their  pride 
Who  on  this  night  would  have  us  know 
They  passed  unsatisfied. 

They  shiver  like  the  thin  brown  leaves 
Upon  a  sapless  tree, 
Clinging  with  palsied,  withered  might 
To  their  identity. 

Their  voices  are  the  unearthly  winds 
That  die  before  the  dawn, 
And  each  one  has  some  tale  to  tell 
And,  having  told,  is  gone. 

***** 
Ah!  you  who  come  with  sea-blue  eyes — 
And  dead  these  hundred  years- 
Be  satisfied!     I  hold  the  cup 
Still  brimming  with  your  tears! 


64] 


THE  MARRIAGE  OF  THE  SPRUCE 

SAID  the  spruce  to  the  new-fallen  snow 

"Be  my  wedding  gown!" 
But  the  little  winds  whispered  "Lo! 

We  will  shake  the  snow  down!" 

Said  the  spruce  to  the  dancing  rain 

"Be  my  silver-shod  feet!" 
But  the  little  winds,  coming  again, 

Turned  the  rain  to  sleet. 

Said  the  spruce  to  the  icicles  "You 

Are  my  wedding  veil." 
But  the  sun  filtered,  laughing,  through 

And  the  bride  turned  pale. 

For  the  sun  was  the  bridegroom  who  came 

With  a  ring  of  gold. 
And  his  love  was  a  naked  flame — 

As  the  winds  had  foretold. 


65] 


ESTRANGED 

Is  there  some  word 
That  you  or  I  might  say 
To  light  the  silence 
With  one  golden  ray? 

We  speak  with  lips 
Cold  or  compassionate; 
Their  deeper  meaning 
Inarticulate. 

Sometimes  a  flower 

Or  melody  of  flute 

Almost  reveals 

Proud  spirits  that  are  mute. 

Last  night  in  sleep 
The  golden  ray  shone  through; 
Last  night  I  dreamed.  .  .  . 
Ah,  what  are  dreams  to  you! 


[66] 


TO  A  YOUNG  GIRL 

I  HAD  forgotten  there  were  hearts  so  young 

As  yours,  tonight, 
Whose  voice,  now  echoing  with  songs  unsung, 

Fills  me  with  strange  delight. 

I  had  forgotten  there  were  eyes  so  swift 

Of  April  mirth, 
Flashing  as  though  with  some  invisible  gift 

From  Heaven  to  Earth. 

I  had  forgotten  there  were  lips  that  pray, 

Like  a  gray-winged  dove, 
For  one  more  hour  of  laughter  and  of  play 

Before  the  holocaust  of  love. 


[67] 


THE  OLDER  WISDOM 

FAIR  head  and  dark,  beside  the  deep  cool  brook, 

Dream-light  in  their  young  eyes; 
He  reads  to  her  from  out  an  ancient  book 

Old  wisdom  for  the  wise. 

And  as  she  listens  her  rapt  loveliness 

Casts  on  the  dusty  page 
A  shadow,  woven  of  a  dream  caress 

In  some  dim  golden  age. 

What  if,  between  them,  like  a  worshipped  star, 

Millions  of  miles  away, 
The  older  wisdom,  flashing  from  afar 

Could  bid  the  dream-light  stay! 


[68] 


SEPTEMBER 

WHO  is  it  calls 

Through  the  sunlit  wood  today? 
Is  it  you  come  back  from  where  never  a  dead  leaf  falls 

On  the  silent  way? 

Where  the  long  road  bends 

Do  you  stand  waiting  for  me? 
If  I  call  will  you  come  by  the  trail  that,  winding,  ends 

Near  this  blood-red  tree? 

Down  the  years  that  are  flown, 

Beloved,  I  whisper  your  name !  .  .  . 
Ah!  the  red  leaves  drip  from  the  tree  and  I  stand  alone 

In  a  forest  of  flame. 


[69] 


ELEGY 

1  HERE  is  one  Spring. 

One  April  of  delight, 
And  all  the  rest  is  but  remembering 

One  moon-lit  night. 

Weave  round  its  spell 

An  elegy  of  song, 
But  never  think  the  white  hawthorn  can  dwell 

With  you  for  long. 

It  is  so  fair 

And  delicate  a  thing, 
A  sudden  wind  leaves  blossoming  twigs  all  bare 

Of  covering. 

White  petals  fall, 

Bewildered,  at  your  feet, 
And  Spring  makes  of  the  whitest  flower  of  all 

A  winding  sheet. 


[70] 


IN  MEMORY  OF— 

I  THINK  of  you  as  one 

Who  often  came 
Close  to  the  wooded  shore  to  watch  the  sun 

Go  down  in  flame. 

As  one  who  dreamed 

Until  the  night  grew  cold. 
Heart  of  a  child !     For  you  the  dark  hills  gleamed 

With  infinite  gold. 

As  one  who  turned 

Back  to  the  shadowy  room, 
Your  spirit's  afterglow  sole  light  that  burned 

Amid  the  gloom. 


[71] 


CRADLE  SONG 

THE  window  makes  a  frame  for  me 
And  all  the  stars  that  I  can  see 
Are  only  three. 

A  little  square  of  autumn  night.  .  .  . 
Somewhere  a  moon,  beyond  my  sight, 
Pours  silver  light 

Upon  a  hill  where  dark  trees  keep 

A  watch  above  Earth's  heart,  now  deep 

In  lovely  sleep. 

A  star  for  you,  a  star  for  me, 

A  star  for  love,  and  those  bright  three 

Are  all  I  see. 


[72] 


TO  A  CHILD 

You  are  my  silent  laughter, 

You  are  my  unshed  tears, 
You  are  the  elfin  wonder 

Of  my  ecstasy  and  fears. 

You  are  my  heart  that  dances, 

You  are  my  soul  that  leaps. 
You  have  hidden  the  key  of  the  lonely  room 

Where  my  troubled  spirit  sleeps. 


[73] 


CHANGELING 

DEAR  changeling,  how  I  love  your  smile, 

Fleet  as  a  timid  fawn, 
It  breaks  upon  me  suddenly 

And  with  a  flash  is  gone. 

It's  hardly  like  a  smile  at  all, 

More  like  a  blinding  light 
That  darts  across  the  starless  sky — 

A  fire-fly  of  the  night. 


[74] 


DRESSING   UP 

I  SEE  her  coming  down  the  winding  stair 
With  trailing  petticoat  and  feathered  fan. 

The  ribbon  binding  up  her  golden  hair 

Is  blue.     She  wears  a  mauve  shawl  from  Japan. 

No  light  of  recognition  in  her  eyes, 

She  greets  me  with  a  curtsy.     As  she  nears, 

Her  every  gesture,  measured,  slow,  denies 
The  unbroken  tyranny  of  her  six  years. 

We  play  that  she  is  hostess — I,  her  guest. 

And  now  she  asks  me  how  I  take  my  tea.  .  .  . 
O,  tiny  fledgeling,  weary  of  the  nest!  .  .  . 

"Two  lumps  and  cream"  I  say — as  brave  as  she. 


75 


LULLABY 

COME  sleep.     Her  heart's  a  wood-anemone. 

Her  thoughts  are  swallows  flown 
Across  the  dusk.     Her  hair's  a  willow  tree 

By  the  west  wind  blown. 
Her  eyes  are  pools  where  bubbles  rise  and  break- 

Dream-bubbles  from  the  deep — 
Her  soul's  a  moth  that  flutters  in  their  wake. 

Come  sleep.  .  .  .  Come  sleep. 


[76 


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